Poetry from Julie Jordan Scott

The Kiss of August

 

Sister words
Majestic, grandeur
Two words which
on their own bear
no meaning

They need experience
to hold them such as
this sculpture of
Auguste

Poetry in Bronze or
Marble or across the
miles into my computer
screen, my eyes burn
from the absence
of it

neither majestic
nor grandeur say
burning heart or
stilled breath or
numb fingers, poised
unable to communicate
what one needs to say

Last kiss of August?

 

Unfit for Trial

Wow. Just a tad bit depressing. Poignant for me, too, thinking of my former clients who are still a victim of the system which is the subject of this poem.

 

Written with Coaxing from the Weekly Get Your Poem On Prompt which asked us to write poems based on headlines. This particular headline tugged my pen... with prompting courtesy of...

 

Unfit for Trial

 

So they say

The Psychologists

With their five years

Under their belts and

Their ill-fitting suits

“Unfit” they declare

And send him off,

The eye devouring

Father who took an

Axe to his own legs

“Unfit” and they

Expect a couple

Years at State

Hospital will make

Him fit for much

Of anything?

I am unfit for

Major League Baseball

A couple years in

Palm Springs

won’t

Ever make me fit

I am unfit for

Donald Trump’s

The Apprentice (nor

Would I want to be)

But I wonder what

Would happen with

Two years of coaching

From The Donald would

I be declared Fit or

Fit to be tied

Unfit they say.

The man sits.

Wheelchair bound.

Hands gagged.

Mind numbed

They say by

Medications.

I remember when

I worked with

Gentlemen and ladies

Declared “Unfit”

And their attorneys

Would look to me

Their eyes begging

Help, I am not fit

To serve this

Gentleman or that

Lady yet you? Are?

I would tell them

And the Judges what to

Do for I actually knew

This law better

than they could or

would

The Judge declaring

The Eye Chewing

Axe Grinding Dad Unfit

Is one with whom I stood,

In chambers, and made

A hearty – not

Eye gagging

Suggestion

Which worked

My client got

Exactly what I asked for

Him to get as he was

Unfit, too

As I am unfit

To deal with

Bureaucracy

Or major league

Baseball or

Donald Trump

Together, Unfit

Separately, Unfit

The System is Unfit

For this Trial

Poem: Show Yourself

For the third week in a row, I haven't written the ReadWritePoem "Get Your Poem On" poem until Thursday, the day we are supposed to post our links for the world to see. Last week, I don't think I got it done until Friday and the week before I never got it done.

Interesting to view my process. I have been collecting words with the "OH" vowel sound since before Monday, yet - - flat until this piece bubbled up and amused me by being "OH" flavored with a definite tang of "EEE" as well.

Reminds me of the way I like to make my Arnold Palmers. :-)

Enjoy this attempt - and visit the ReadWritePoem website.

 

Poem: show yourself
Open your foolish
Swirls of oceanic
Sea orchards onto
my page
my pen
waits

Ogling blue green
word tentacles
remote obstacles
gripping my oomph

I take a gulp
of breath that
"ohhhhhhhhhh"
becomes a silent
screeching Nooooooo
Let me goooooo

I don't know
how to breathe
this far below
the surface of
the page

Poem: show yourself
Open to me

Foolish, I am to throw
The hope for my soul
in so many odes
to the poem ogre

Poem: Please
Open: Show
Don't let me
or ths

Go

 

What does this Villanelle Want Me to Know?

I wrote this last February, when I was experimenting with Villanelle. I am feeling like September would be a good month for Villanelle, Part 2. I love the form, but in retrospect, attempting this in a month so full of.... STUFF... what was I thinking?

This piece asks some important questions of the reader.

What does this villanelle want me to know?
I drive into the early morning sun
My theme now, radical grace, waves hello – -

Like thick color drips, dense hues of van Gogh
Unscatter goals lying about, undone
What does this villanelle want me to know?

a Kempis, new old friend, words to bestow
VDay rehearsal, truth tales spin
My them now, radical grace, waves hello – -

The blues descend due to the final show –
In some ways it felt one life had begun
What does this villanelle want me to know?

Step into intention, reap what I sow
Drudgery is play, blockages are fun
My theme now, radical grace, waves hello – -

Feet firm to the earth, arms raised, to go
Ease drops deception this very first one
What does this villanelle want me to know?
My theme now, radical grace, waves hello – -

 

Thirty Years Later, I Unearthed It (#3 from Disinter Me Series)

I am officially exhausted now!

#3 from the ReadWritePoem.Org Mini-Challenge:

 

Lost in the Bridgehampton woods
It can't be too large of a space
Yet in all the twists and turns
it seemed infinite until the crackling
pine needle underbrush became small
white stones - vomit spewed
from the quarry mouth, wide open
its quick sand calling me "Scoop
out your map here, little girl!"
it said, "Listen to the gut penetrating
roar of untamed mufflers there, over
there!" the grey, dried up gravel hand uncovered
an invisible machete, piercing the trees,
swashbuckling through the oceans of leaves

My restless turned angry tears exhumed confidence
shredded and the edge of the woods appeared and
allowed me passage, finding me more than I found
it as I pushed the memory of being buried,
succumbing to the suction of the woods and
the silt of the rocks, they sift through
my fragile recollection more than thirty
years later, I unearth it

Where the Exchange Occurs

This poem came from engaging with a prompt from Dorianne Laux at ReadWritePoem.org. I loved the prompt and was shocked at how long it took me to write the entire poem, unusual for me.

Where the Exchange Occurs

At the intersection of Hawthorne and Linden Avenues
Memory bounces in the unnaturally yellow tennis ball
70's era girl scout uniform dangles from a red hanger
"On my honor, I will try" lives in the "11" troop label as
Death in red leaves fall from the Maple's aging arm
Her fingers check my pulse, ears listen, eyes
praying for anything except this spacious silence
Without a pillow, I beg for the next ending, anything
except... Paradox, its meeting point where the exchange occurs
for meanness is them, not me, my job is to stay me like a
barren tree, leafless, somehow full of protective life at
my feet, grounded, rooted, below the path separated by
Hunger's emptiness isn't an insistent Audrey 2 "Feed me!!!"
Wrap it in whatever meaning you elect I notice, I see
her hair is a slip knot riding snugly against her neck
Claw foot pedestal table holds up her elbows I watch
wondering, curious, last night's question still hanging
like the uniform dangling from the plastic red hanger
anachronism, out of sorts, out of time, a blizzard
of thoughts cover my sand buried toes
my legs, looking like marble reflecting moon rays
I settle back, tucking my red purse beneath my head
Someone will cover me with a colorful quilt when I am cold

 

Plough

This poem was written as a part of a Mini Writing Challenge at ReadWritePoem.org.

Enjoy!

Plough

I smell the dirt
Moved, recently unearthed
and made wet, again

Air added to the once
inpenetrable so
something useful
may be planted
and grow

The soil sits, choiceless
manipulated and marauded
wishing it could be wild
and remained buried until
the wind opened the door

Tonight I will rest upon
it, my bare neck to its raw,
bleeding blisters

Perhaps I will take some
of it with me and together
We will begin, again

Disinter Me

Undated notecard whisper shouted to me
from the depth of my purse
where I unearthed it from the cast
off pencils with the tips broken off
and the spare change and tokens
from John's Incredible Pizza

Blue-lined container with a word
collection splattered acrossed it

"I want time alone so I meander
down the street, noticing
on my the way to my destination,

penny's shiny copper
colored face calling out to me.
"It is embedded in aged tar and
sadly, I realize there is
nothing I can do in this
here-and-now to release it.

Instead, I stand still and take
a deep breath, letting
it out slowly:

my quiet, one-on-one memorial
service for a penny that once
rode in and out of people's pockets,
wallets and change drawers."

The tattered note card exhales
satisfied for the attention
though it asks a final question
of me, silly human, holding
such blue-lined not quite paper
not quite cardboard between my
thumb and index finger -

"How times in my life have I been
 that penny and in that moment when
I held a memorial service for the
me that was or the me I thought
I should be, someone reached
out and helped me
disinter myself?

This poem was written as a part of ReadWritePoem's current Mini-Challenge.